


guide me safely to shore

by winterfool



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Which leads to, basically just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfool/pseuds/winterfool
Summary: Both Cullen and the Inquisitor have difficulty sleeping.





	guide me safely to shore

Cullen is used to not sleeping.

After Kinloch, he forces himself to stay awake for days at a time to avoid having to close his eyes and see it all again – the broken bodies of mages and templars strewn throughout the tower, blood streaking the walls and floor; the glimmer of the barrier keeping him prisoner, shifting just enough to play tricks on his eyes and mind; the demons that torment him, trying to break him. He still can’t bear to be in small, enclosed spaces.

In Kirkwall he loses track of time as he tries, and fails, to contain the destruction and the growing conflict. He doesn’t even realise he can’t remember the last time he slept until a wave of exhaustion almost makes him collapse in the middle of the Gallows: he’s been too busy watching the city descend into chaos, knowing he could and should have done more to stop it. Finally understanding that rage, fear and pain carved him out, changed him, made him a person who turned a blind eye and allowed atrocities to be committed.

When he stops taking lyrium, the nightmares that have plagued him for years only get worse, crawling their way into the darkest recesses of his mind and making him relive the worst things he has done, the worst things he has seen and suffered.

By the time the Inquisition gets to Skyhold, it’s normal for Cullen to go weeks without a night of unbroken sleep.

When the nights are really bad, and he only manages to steal an hour or two at most, he passes the time in the war room, going over troop movements and reports from the scouts, and planning out potential strategies. He’s quite sure that Josephine and Leliana are well aware of how little he sleeps when they pass their knowing eyes over him, but they don’t mention it. They leave that to Cassandra, who watches him with brusque sympathy.

“If you cannot sleep, at least rest,” she suggests in a matter-of-fact manner he’s grateful for. “Working yourself to exhaustion will not help you, or us.”

He does try to take her advice, but while their enemies are still out there the work that needs doing never slows and he gets frustrated sitting in his office or lying awake in his bed when he could be doing something useful.

***

The first time Inquisitor Lavellan joins him in the war room, Cullen knows she’s here for the same reason.

He thinks he would be able to tell even if it weren’t the middle of the night; Eilidh’s eyes hold an echo of the tired, haunted look that greets him every time he looks in a mirror. Something inside of him aches to recognise it.

“You’re up late,” she says, voice soft, lips quirking upwards into a small smile.

“So are you.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, walking over to the table. “I thought I might as well do something productive with my time.”

He smiles wearily. “I had much the same thought. There does seem to be a never-ending pile of paperwork.”

“Mmm. I wish someone had warned me before I accepted the job.”

Cullen laughs. “Poor you.”

Looking down at the map, she gestures to where he has indicated changes in troop movements and asks, “Is everything alright?”

He follows her gaze and gives a tired nod, dragging a hand across his eyes. “Yes, fine. Reports came in from the scouts of more groups of Red Templars, so some of our forces need to be redistributed. And it looks like they might have found another deposit of red lyrium.”

He hands her the report he’s been reading. Her gaze skims over the paper for a few moments, then she looks at the positioning on the map with a faint sigh. “I’ll take people to investigate soon.”

“I can send some men,” Cullen offers, but Eilidh shakes her head.

“No. The red lyrium’s so dangerous, I’d rather not expose more people to it than necessary.”

Cullen’s mouth tightens a little, but he nods in understanding.

There are chairs set out along the walls of the room. She pulls one over to sit beside him and settles herself into it, legs crossed beneath her, then reaches out to the stack of reports at his elbow and takes a handful. A companionable quiet settles around them, broken only when they pass information back and forth or ask the other’s opinion on particular issues.

As the time passes, Cullen finds his gaze straying from the reports to her.

He has to admit, he had his doubts at first, in Haven. Those first few weeks she was quiet and contained, watching everything with a kind of coiled stillness, like a wild animal unsure if danger is approaching that might bolt at any moment. He expected her to leave when the chance presented itself – to want to get away from people who swung between venerating her as a figurehead for a religion she didn’t even believe in, and still harbouring suspicions over her role in what had happened at the Conclave.

But she didn’t. She stayed, doing everything that was asked of her and more – fighting every battle, closing the rifts, using the power that had been given to her (or forced on her depending on how you looked at it) to _help_ people and pull their scattered strength together as a team with a single purpose. As she settled into her role and her wariness faded, Cullen began to see underneath, to the warmth and the gentleness woven around a strength that is unassuming and easy to overlook, but steel nevertheless.

Over the years, with all he has seen and experienced, Cullen’s faith is not unaltered; while not destroyed, like looking into a cracked mirror his perspective is indelibly marked and changed. He wasn’t sure he believed in providence or a larger plan any more, but watching Eilidh grow into the leader they need … it’s hard not to see the Maker’s hand it, guiding their paths together (even though, were he to say that to her, her nose would wrinkle in disbelief; even now, she keeps trying to stop people calling her the Herald of Andraste).

He still thanks the Maker for the fact that she is here, alive.

The attack on Haven has often featured in his recent nightmares: the village burning, the glow of red lyrium, the very mountains seeming to shake with the high, blood-chilling scream of the dragon. And the long, agonising wait afterwards, hoping and praying that by some miracle she might have survived, combing the mountains for any sign of her – and the overwhelming _relief_ , that almost made his legs collapse beneath him, when her silhouette appeared through a veil of mist and snow.

He vividly remembers how it felt to carry her in his arms back to the camp, holding her close to his chest and looking for any indication that colour was creeping back into her skin. Whispering to her to hold on just a little longer.

It still surprises him, how much the thought of losing her frightened him. Frightens, rather, because it’s still there, threatening to rise up inside him and drive him out of his mind with worry if he thinks too much about the danger she’s in each time she sets foot outside Skyhold.

So he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t _let_ himself think about it and what it means, even if it a part of him already knows. That’s not a road he should go down.

He forces his attention back to his reports, and just as he’s getting back into lists of troop deployments and which garrisons need what supplies, Eilidh speaks beside him.

“It’s nearly dawn.”

Cullen looks up, and sure enough the world outside has lightened from black to a dim shade of grey and a band of light is beginning to appear on the horizon.

“So it is.” He slowly places the reports back on the table. “I suppose we should try and get some more rest, before everyone else gets up.”

Eilidh nods, and unfolds herself from her chair. Cullen tries not to notice the grace with which she moves. She looks down at him and now, with the growing light, he can see more of the green colour of her eyes. “Perhaps I’ll see you here the next time I can’t sleep.”

He smiles. “Perhaps you will.”

***

The next time turns out to be two nights later. He’s sat going through the reports of enemy sightings, marking on the map every place that red templars or venatori have been seen, when she comes in. As before, she pulls a chair up close and takes a stack of the papers to start going through.

Although Cullen does a better job of keeping his attention on what he’s reading this time, he’s still hyper-aware of her next to him – of the quiet sound of her breathing, the hair falling loosely over her shoulders, the way she pulls at her lower lip with her teeth as she concentrates.

He would only have to lean a little way over to touch her.

He tells himself to stop, but he knows it won’t do any good. If he was capable of stopping, he would have done so a long time before now.

“Would it be completely terrible,” she says, thankfully breaking into his train of thought, “if some of these reports blew out the window? Or maybe were accidentally set on fire?”

Cullen chuckles. “I can’t say I would mind … I wouldn’t want to have explain what happened to Leliana, though.”

“Good point. I don’t suppose you have a lecture prepared on the importance of paperwork? I might need it.”

She gives him a sideways smile and Cullen’s taken back to that conversation in Haven. It was the first time they had really talked outside the meetings in the makeshift war room, the first time he felt he had a gotten a glimpse of who she really was. It was also the first time he truly saw her smile. Her face had lit up, humour dancing in her eyes, and something had begun to shift inside him.

Now he smiles back and says, “I don’t, I’m afraid, but if you give me a few moments I might be able to come up with something.”

As they work side by side for the rest of the night, talking in quiet voices even though there’s no chance of waking anyone else because the late hour seems to demand a hush, her very presence seems to lighten the room. It lends Cullen strength, so he begins to feel less haggard, more focused, and not like he’s just trying to distract himself from the nightmares.

When dawn approaches and they part again to try and claim a little more sleep before the next day, he’s sorry to leave her.

***

It becomes almost a kind of routine between them after that – one will have already started going through the latest batch of requests and reports when the other arrives, pulls up a chair, and joins them. They work through the night until first light, when they leave to rest a while before the day truly begins.

There’s not any sort of regular patterns to their meetings – insomnia doesn’t exactly work to a schedule - but it happens enough that Cullen begins to look for her on the nights he can’t sleep and the war room feels empty and lonely when she isn’t there working beside him.

It’s on a night after a storm has been howling through the mountains all day, rain lashing the sides of the fortress, that the war room is even colder than usual. Cullen’s lit all the braziers but even they don’t make much of a difference and he would swear every time the wind batters against the windows that he can actually feel it on his skin. 

Although he has left his armour off he still has his surcoat on, which helps, but Eilidh is shivering and both their breaths are misting in front of him. Cullen shakes his head.

“We can’t work in here tonight. It’s too cold.”

“No, you’re right.”

He nods, stubbornly ignoring the twinge of disappointment his chest and hoping he doesn’t get too soaked crossing the courtyard back to his tower.

“Let’s go to my quarters.”

His head snaps up and he blinks at her. “Your – your quarters?”

“Yes,” Eilidh says. “You can’t go outside in this, and I don’t know how Josephine would feel about us using her office. My quarters have a fireplace, so they’ll be warm. We can work there.”

His mouth is dry and he has to swallow before he replies. “Ah. Yes. That … that makes sense. Alright.”

It does make sense. It’s practical, he thinks to himself. A change of scenery doesn’t change anything else – he can, and will, be entirely professional, just as she is.

It’s harder to believe once actually inside her rooms. He’s never been here before, and can’t resist looking curiously around. She wasn’t particularly concerned with the decoration of Skyhold, he remembers, just that everything was in safe, habitable condition. If he had thought about it, he might have expected to see Josephine or Vivienne’s touches, as they were the ones insistent that the Inquisitor have well-furnished quarters.

It seems clear to him, though, that the room speaks only of Eilidh. It’s simply decorated, tasteful and welcoming. Colourful sprays of flowers sit in the corners, and books have piled up beside her desk and on the floor. The desk itself is covered in papers and letters. Her armour is set on a stand against one wall, and next to it is a rack of daggers, various shaped blades that all gleam wickedly sharp.

Dalish ornaments and carvings are noticeable on her shelves, desk and mantelpiece, symbols of her gods and her heritage. She has spoken to Cullen of her Clan, during their hours together, always in a voice soft with longing. If, when, they find a way to end this war, will she leave the Inquisition to go back to them? Will he ever see her again?

The thought that he might not makes his throat close up and something restrict painfully in his chest.

In the centre of the space is her bed, but the covers and pillows have all been taken off and put on the floor beside it, over the kind of bedroll used in the field, forming a makeshift pallet. The covers are still pushed back from where she must have been trying to sleep. Cullen looks over at Eilidh, who gives a small shrug. “The bed’s too soft.”

Being here feels intimate; the closeness that exists only in the space between them when they’re working together fills every part of this room, surrounding them. Not to mention that picturing her sleeping there leads to other thoughts, of other uses that might be made of that bed, of her underneath him, head arched back in pleasure, hands on his skin and . . . _Maker’s breath_ , he’s positive his face must be visibly burning.

Despite her matter-of-fact tone, it’s clear Eilidh isn’t entirely unflustered either, from the way her eyes dart between him and the bed and a faint blush rises along her cheeks. Cullen really should not enjoy seeing that, knowing it’s not just him - that he does affect her at least a little, as she affects him. But he does.

So there’s an unspoken tension tangled around them as they settle in front of the fireplace and start reading, and lasts until Eilidh passes him a letter from an Orlesian noble, asking for the Inquisition’s intervention in a personal dispute that apparently stems from the food at a dinner party being insulted. They both start laughing, leaning in towards each other, and the awkwardness is gone, in its place the usual warm, contented companionship they have come to share.

He likes her like this – smiling in a way that seems to light her whole being, without anxiety knotting her brow or tightening her jaw. She was made for happiness, he thinks, not for the harsh responsibilities that now rest on her shoulders.

As her laughter subsides Eilidh looks at him for a moment, eyes bright, then in a brief, swift movement she reaches to take the papers from his hands and sets them and the ones she has been going through aside.

“We’ve been doing this for _nights_ ,” she says by way of explanation. “We work too much.”

“What would you suggest we do instead?”

She smiles – a slow, slightly mischievous grin that makes the muscles low in his stomach clench – and crosses the room to her desk. Opening a drawer, she pulls out what looks like a square box but, as she comes back over, Cullen suddenly recognises.

“A chess set?” he asks, smiling himself now.

“Vivienne got it sent here for me so I could practise,” Eilidh explains, settling herself back down and beginning to unpack the pieces. “Care for a match, Commander?”

“Certainly, Inquisitor.”

“No letting me win this time.” She raises a finger warningly and he chuckles. He’s not surprised she worked it out – he knows she’s sharp and observant – but he’s absurdly pleased that she took the time to get her own set so she could practise to beat him.

He moves first, and watches with fond amusement as she carefully considers even her opening response. His mind is already skimming over different plays and possible outcomes, and as play progresses he does as she requested and doesn’t take it easy on her this time around. He enjoys watching her; seeing the turning of her mind as she chooses where to place each piece, the delight each time she manages to capture one of his pieces and the frustration when he takes one of hers.

With the fire burning away in the grate, the room is warm enough for Cullen to discard his surcoat and push his shirt sleeves up. It’s strange; without his armour he usually feels discomfited, and vulnerable. With her, he’s entirely comfortable. It’s a nice feeling.

They talk as they play, exchanging stories from their childhoods. Cullen tells her about time his younger sister Rosalie got stuck up a tree trying to rescue a kitten and he sprained his wrist helping them get down. Eilidh tells him about how she got the thin white scar that cuts through her right eyebrow, when her cousin Carwyn was learning how to shoot a bow and did not have the best aim.

His next move will check her king and win the game, but as he reaches for his queen a crackle of green light engulfs Eilidh’s hand and she falls sideways to the ground with a cry of pain.

Cullen’s at her side in a moment, sending the chess board flying in his haste to get to her. He pulls her into his arms, heart thudding. She’s curling in on herself, clutching her left hand to her chest. The anchor has seared vividly to life; it’s as though her palm has split open and thin green veins spill up her hand and wrist, pulsing with harsh light. Her whole body is shaking, quiet whimpers of pain escaping her lips and sweat beading on her forehead.

“Eilidh …” He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he should get help, but doesn’t know who – the healers? Solas? – and he’s afraid to leave her alone.

“I-It’s fine … Cullen … it will – will pass … soon,” she pants out.

He decides if it lasts more than a few minutes he’ll go and wake Solas, but for now he simply holds her close and strokes her hair. She leans her face into his shoulder, and her right hand reaches up to curl into his shirt. It tears at him to see her in such agony. He wants nothing more than to be able to take it away from her. He hates this. This burden that’s been forced on her. Hates the pain that she suffers and that he never _knew_ about it, when he could have done something – he’s not sure what, but something. _Anything_.

Each second that passes feels stretched to the length of an hour, and it seems years before her whimpers finally quiet and her trembling starts to calm. The light from the anchor fades and there is only the mark on her palm to indicate it was ever there at all. Her whole body begins to relax, shoulders slumping and her left hand falling to her lap, but her breathing is heavy, as though she’s come to the end of a race.

She stays leaning into him, and makes no move to disentangle himself. After a moment she tilts her head back to look at him. Her eyes are tired and vulnerable, a faintly wry tilt to her expression as though to say: _Well, now you know_.

Cullen reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, doesn’t say anything as he holds it up and gently rubs his thumb across her palm. Across the anchor.

“This is what’s kept you awake all these nights?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes it’s just dreams.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Tell anyone?”

She shrugs and when she speaks her voice is strained. Choked. “What could you do? Besides, I’m the Inquisitor. The Herald. People see this as a sign of hope. What would they think if they knew it does this to me? At best, it will remind them that I’m as mortal as they are, and that will frighten them. At worst, people will start questioning whether they should even be following a leader too weak to cope with the power she’s been given. The Inquisitor brought down by her own _hand_?”

A brief silence follows.

Tears have gathered in the corners of her eyes, Cullen realises, but she’s holding them back through sheer force of will. Sudden fierce, tender admiration of this woman fills him, so much that he doesn’t think his body is enough to contain it.

“You -” he says, holding her gaze, needing her to understand how much he means every word he is saying - “are not weak. This is magic beyond anything any of us have ever seen. To bear it as you have is strength, not weakness. We are _lucky_ to have you as a leader.”

Her expression softens a little, but he can see the doubt lingering.

“I cannot imagine anyone doing better than you have done. I have never met anyone stronger than you are.” He pauses. He wants to bring her hand up and kiss it, brush his lips over the mark on her palm and across each finger. He settles for squeezing it tightly. “But you do not have to endure this alone.”

The corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile.

“So what is it that keeps you awake?” she asks quietly.

“Nightmares.” She deserves honesty, and he wants to be honest with her, wants her to see every part of him, so he adds, “Not taking lyrium … it makes them worse.”

A frown creases her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. It’s worth it, not to be leashed to it. And some nights are better than others.”

Either the attack or the confession, or perhaps a combination of both, has clearly left her exhausted. Cullen looks down at her hand and traces the anchor with his thumb again.

“Is it likely to happen again tonight?”

“Not tonight, no. It doesn’t usually happen more than once in a night.”

“Then you should try and get some sleep.”

He lifts her into his arms and carries her across to her makeshift bed on the floor. Gently he sets her down, but as he leans across to pull the covers over her, she tugs at his shirt and whispers, “Stay with me.”

He stops.

Chest tight, he looks down at her. He wants to say yes, of course. Wants to spend every second he can with her. But there are a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t and all of them are going through his mind.

“Please.” Her fingers are still holding his shirt. “I feel safe with you here.”

“Alright.”

He takes off his boots, then lowers himself on to the pallet beside her, pulling the covers across both of them. The floor is solid beneath him, but she’s laid down enough blankets on top of the bedroll that it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. He turns over so he’s lying on his back, stretching out, and Eilidh moves closer to rest her head on his chest. Instinctively his arm comes up to curl around her, holding her against him, and her arm comes out to rest across his stomach.

As they lay there, he’s intensely aware that he can feel the entire line of her body pressed against his. The loose shift and leggings she’s wearing only provide a thin barrier, so he’s aware of her thigh next to his, the soft press of her breasts up against his side, the curve of her hip beneath his fingers. He tries not to be aware of it, but he knows the knowledge will be branded on his memory and haunt his waking moments.

He tries not to think about how natural and _right_ it to feels to hold her like this, how her body seems to fit perfectly in line with his.

It doesn’t take long for her breathing to deepen and slow, and when he glances down he can see her eyes have closed. A small measure of his self-control breaks, and he leans down to brush a gossamer-light kiss against her forehead.

It’s his intention to wait a little while longer, until he’s sure that she’s deeply asleep, and then gently extract himself and return to his own quarters. He doesn’t want to risk disturbing her with his nightmares and it would be inappropriate to spend the entire night in her room.

But as he waits, listening to the steady sound of her breathing, feeling the warmth of her against him, his eyes begin to drift shut and he slips inexorably into the welcoming darkness of sleep.

***

When he wakes, the sky has cleared and a bright shaft of sunlight is falling across his face.

Half-opening his eyes, he realises with vague surprise that it’s well past dawn, probably nearing mid-morning. He can’t remember the last time he slept so late, or so soundly. The warm haze of sleep is still clouding the corners of his mind; he clings to it, relaxed and content, not really wanting to come fully awake.

The rest of his senses begin slowly to catch up with his mind; he makes out the low, quiet whistle of the wind, punctuated by the calls of birds and – distantly, faint enough to not be completely clear but loud enough to tease the edges of his hearing – the sounds of people beginning to move about Skyhold. All of it melds together into a symphony of wakefulness.

Feeling sinks in next, the faint discomfort in shoulder and hip for having been lain on for too long. He shifts slightly, but as he moves, awareness trickles through that there is another body lying beside him and suddenly the previous night comes back in a rush of memory. He opens his eyes fully and turns his head slightly to look at Eilidh.

They have both rolled over in their sleep. He’s now lying on his side, curled around her; her back is pressed up against his chest and her legs are tangled with his. His arm rests across her stomach, holding her to him, and their heads are so close that if she were awake she would feel his breath against her ear. He can feel the warmth of her skin and smell her scent, clean and somewhat flowery.

His gazes travels slowly over her face. Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted in sleep, her entire face is relaxed, all lines of care and worry wiped away. She looks younger and softer this way, and completely at peace. And Maker, but she’s beautiful. _Beautiful_.

Sunlight cascades across her face and down one bare shoulder where her shift has slipped, bathing her in gold. Everywhere the light touches the dark waves of her hair it gleams, and Cullen wants to run his fingers through it, feel its softness against his skin.

She turns towards him slightly, and he can see the faint flicker of a pulse in the hollow of her throat. He imagines leaning forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to just that spot … then trailing a line of kisses across her collarbone to her shoulder, and down towards her breasts …

… and he really needs to stop, because if she wakes up now his body will make it more than obvious what’s running through his mind.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to bring himself back under control. When he opens them again he’s looking into Eilidh’s bright green ones.

She smiles sleepily, turning in his arms so they’re face to face. He thinks that if he could wake up to this every day, then he would die a happy man. “Good morning.”

Her voice is low and slightly throaty from sleep, and he wonders if she has any idea what it does to him.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Better. It doesn’t hurt,” she says, like she knows he’s worrying about just that. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes. More than I meant to. I should have been gone long before now.”

A puzzled look passes over her face. “What do you mean?”

There is nothing he would like more than to stay lying beside her, but as well as the ever-present weight of his responsibilities, he’s afraid if he stays he any longer his willpower will crumble and he’ll do something completely unprofessional – like kiss her until they’re both breathless. So, reluctantly, he pulls his arm away and begins to get up, gesturing at the windows as he does so. “It’s already mid-morning. People will be looking for us. I should be over-seeing the training now.”

“Do you remember what I said about us working too much?”

He chuckles, already feeling colder without her, despite the fact that he’s retrieved his surcoat from the couch. His boots are on the floor nearby, and he sits down to put them on. “I promise I’ll try and fit a day off into my schedule.”

Is it his imagination, or is there a shadow of disappointment in her eyes as she also gets up? But she’s smiling as she says, “You do that.”

One thought’s been lurking at the back of his mind since he realised the time and he can’t not mention it, because he needs to know if it will make things awkward. “They’ll notice me coming from your rooms, you know.”

She lifts her chin up a little. “I know.”

They hold each other’s gazes a moment. He doesn’t know if she just doesn’t care that there might be gossip or if she’s implying that she wouldn’t mind if what people will think was the truth - and he’s not quite brave enough to ask. So he takes it as reassurance that things between them won’t change and nods, a corner of his mouth curling upwards.

As he’s opening the door to leave he pauses, turns, and says, “Would it be strange to say that … I had a good time last night? Not when – when you were … I don’t mean that … but -”

“I know. I did, too.”

He takes one last look at her, her hair still mussed from sleep, eyes soft, the sunlight outlining her body through her shift, and as he closes the door he can’t help but feel that he’s left his heart in the room behind him.

***

Something shifts after that and, gradually, their routine changes with it.

It starts with Eilidh’s belief that they need to work less. The next night that they meet in the war room, she greets him with a small smile – one that speaks of secrets and intimacies shared and makes something in his chest ache – and after chewing her lip for a few moments says, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I meant it. We work too much.”

Cullen lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you didn’t.”

“It’s not healthy for either of us.”

“Then what do we do?”

Her smile widens then, brilliant and bright. “Play chess, of course.”

So that’s what they do. They still go over the most urgent reports and requests, take time to discuss any important decisions that need making but haven’t yet been agreed on, but afterward anything that can wait gets set aside and they spend the rest of their time playing chess – Eilidh trying out strategies that Dorian’s been coaching her in – and just talking.

Some nights they talk of the past. He learns about her childhood in the Free Marches – about her parents, who died when she was young during a raid on her Clan by Tevinter slavers, about her training to become a Halla keeper and that that’s why she chose her Vallaslin, about how having grown up travelling from place to place she still finds it strange to have a fixed location to return to. He tells her about his family and growing up in Honnleath, about how much he missed them when he left to join the Templars and how he worries, now, about how different things will be when he finally sees them again.

Other nights they focus on the present. She recounts the time she’s spent in the library with Dorian or walking with Cole around Skyhold, about training with Cassandra and the fun she’s had with Bull and the Chargers. He vents some of his frustrations over the recruits’ training and relays some of the gossip he’s heard from people passing by his office (such as the betting pool that’s started over whether Cassandra and Varric will end up kissing each other, or killing each other), which always makes her laugh.

With every story shared, he feels closer to her. He’s taking down walls that he hadn’t quite realised were there – or maybe she’s the one taking them down, brick by brick, and using them to pave herself a road that leads straight to his heart.

Eventually he feels able to tell her about Kinloch and Kirkwall, and the memories that still haunt him. He needs to tell her; he trusts her to see what good there still is in him, because she’s the type of person to look for the good in everyone, but he needs to know she’s aware of the darkness and the shadows that are still there, too.

She reaches across the table and takes his hand. Nothing else needs to be said.

They go to her rooms to play, and Cullen’s constantly aware of her makeshift bed on the floor and the memories of lying in it with her. Neither of them bring it up, but occasionally their gazes skitter towards it and tension fills the air as they look at each other, cheeks flushing red.

For a while that’s all that happens. When their games finish and their conversations wind to a close, Cullen wishes her a good night and takes his leave, making his way back to his tower.

It’s after a particularly long, gruelling day, when they have been arguing with Leliana and Josephine at the war table for hours over the best way to remind certain nobles of the Inquisition’s growing power, that Eilidh’s eyelids are beginning to drift shut not even halfway through their chess match. Cullen calls it to an end and guides her over to the pallet. Whether it’s the exhaustion or the physical closeness, or just finding themselves here again, Cullen doesn’t know, but as she did that first night she tugs him down to lie beside her and he finds himself falling asleep with her in his arms.

And then it happens again.

And again.

And before Cullen’s aware of it, it’s become normal. They work a while, then play a game of chess or cards, or taking turns reading out chapters from Varric’s novels – and then they sleep, tangled together, taking comfort in each other’s presence.

***

He doesn’t realise how normal it’s become until she leaves.

There are matters that need to be dealt with in Emprise du Lion and the Emerald Graves that can’t be solved via messenger raven. And there are still red lyrium deposits that need to be destroyed. So she needs to go in person.

It’s decided in the morning, and by afternoon she’s ready to leave. She’s taking Cassandra, Dorian and Bull with her, and Cullen comes to the gates to see them off.

“It’ll take a few weeks. Maybe a month, at most,” she says, looking up at him. With her armour on, daggers strapped to her back and hair pulled back into a long braid, she looks ready to go into battle. She’s the Inquisitor now; he can see the difference, like the title is another piece of equipment she’s wearing.

This isn’t the first time she’s gone on mission away from Skyhold, of course. He knows that, and he knows it’s entirely necessary for her to go. Important for her to be out there. But somehow saying goodbye is different this time.

“I’ll send word whenever I can,” she continues.

“Do. I’ll try and keep you updated from here.” The words aren’t anything like what he really wants to say. “Be careful.”

“I will be.”

Coming over, Cassandra catches this last exchange and says with a look that makes Cullen wonder just how much she suspects, “Don’t worry, Commander. We’ll keep her safe.”

“Absolutely,” Dorian adds in his lazy drawl. “After all, we’re all up a certain creek without much of a paddle without this one, aren’t we?”

“I think it’s your caring nature that I love most about you, Dorian,” Eilidh says dryly, and he winks in reply. Turning back to Cullen with a smile playing about her lips, she says, “I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Yes. See you then.”

And they’re gone.

Cullen spends the rest of the day in the training yard and going through reports, so it doesn’t hit him until after sundown, when he’s about to head over to Eilidh’s rooms when he suddenly remembers she isn’t there.

He paces about his office for a while, at a loss for what to do, then finally decides to just retire for the night. But his bed seems more uncomfortable than before and the upper tower floor that he’s claimed as his rooms are cold and lonely. He tosses and turns, and ends up lying on his back staring out the hole in the roof above him.

The next nights aren’t any easier.

He tries practising his chess, but moving the pieces alone, with no one on the other side of the board to talk to, seems pointless.

He goes to the war room but he suddenly realises how big a room it is when he’s the only one in there, the shadows that pool in the corners making it appear even vaster. He takes some papers back to his office and gets through a few of them, but he’s having trouble concentrating.

A little out of desperation, he finally starts a letter to Mia, who wrote weeks ago with some very choice words about the fact that his communications often come months apart. But when he reads it back he has to screw it up and start over because almost every other line mentions Eilidh and he sounds like an infatuated schoolboy, not the Commander of one of the most powerful organisations in Thedas.

If he wasn’t so frustrated, he might laugh at himself. He can’t believe how easily he’s become accustomed to sleeping in the same bed as Eilidh, to the point that he can’t stop thinking about how much he misses the warmth of her lying next to him, the quiet, steady sound of her breathing, the faintly ticklish feeling whenever her hair brushes against his skin.

And it’s only now that he realises how, since they started sharing a bed, he’s been sleeping more and sleeping better. There are still difficult nights, when the nightmares claw at him and he wakes up in a cold sweat, arms locked rigid. But they were easier to deal with when Eilidh was there, to stroke his brow and murmur comforting words. And there were the nights when her anchor would flare to life, causing her to curl over in pain, and he would hold her until she could breathe freely again.

He wonders what she does if it flares up in the camp. Does she stay in her tent, hiding it from the others? Do any of them realise? He hates the thought of her alone and hurting.

He prays that’s she able to sleep better than he is. If she’s tired, or worn out, and they stumble into any danger … so many things could go wrong, and he could so easily lose her, so easily …

No, he tells himself. He can’t think like this. They’ve had messenger birds, infrequent, but enough to let them know they’re well and still on the move. That’s what he has to focus on.

Still, he’s counting the days until she returns.

***

In the end, it takes two days short of a month.

They arrive mid-afternoon, without advance warning. Cullen hears a shout from the gate as he’s overseeing some new recruits’ training session and his heart leaps into his throat. Without a word he turns and strides almost at a run to the other end of the courtyard and then he sees her – laughing at something Bull’s saying, looking tired and worn but whole, and it’s all he can do not to sweep her into his arms right then.

She catches sight of him and her expression opens, her lips curling into a wide smile. Maker, he’s missed that smile. He drinks in the sight of her, a knot of tension that he’s been carrying for weeks finally unwinding.

“Cullen.”

“It’s good to see you.”

He can’t say much else, not with so many others present, but it doesn’t change how genuinely happy she looks to see him.

The greeting doesn’t last much longer. She and the others need to get unloaded and rest for a while, and then he, Leliana and Josephine all need to be given a full briefing on how things went. Cullen returns to the training, but knowing she’s here, so close, but that he has to wait to see her properly and then even longer to be alone with her makes the time drag by slowly.

When they gather for the briefing, he can’t take his eyes off her. She’s changed out of her armour into her usual tunic and leggings, and he finds himself looking closely for any sign of injury. There’s nothing obvious, he’s relieved to see; she looks a little paler than usual, shadows cutting beneath her eyes, but she’s alert and animated as she tells them about the Orlesian refugees that have formed a force in the Emerald Graves, and the Red Templars they fought in in Emprise du Lion.

She looks mostly between Leliana and Josephine as she talks, but occasionally her eyes drift to him and when they do the corner of her mouth quirks upwards.

They finish well into the evening. Cullen deliberately lingers in the room while Leliana and Josephine walk Eilidh and Cassandra out, still asking various questions.

He shuffles some papers absently, tapping one foot in an impatient tattoo. When he thinks enough time has passed for them to all to have parted ways, he makes his way back through the corridor and up to Eilidh’s quarters.

The door opens as soon as he knocks and although it’s only been a few minutes he feels a burst of happiness to see her standing there, waiting for him, a soft, private smile on her face.

“Come in. I’ve already …” She waves a hand and he sees the chess board set up, just as always.

Laughing quietly, he steps inside. It all feels so right, the anxiety of the last weeks gone as if it were never there, and yet he’s tense, body humming with nerves. The time apart was awful and he hated every minute of it, but it also gave him space to think … and to realise some things.

If asked, he doesn’t think he could pinpoint a single moment when he fell in love her, or even when he knew that he had. It was a growing thing, a slow understanding that being with her brings light and laughter and joy to his life and that he never wants to be without her.

He feels certain that if he’s going to tell her that, it has to be now; that, somehow, what’s between them, and what _might_ be between them, will be decided tonight.

He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can she’s asking, “How are you? I didn’t get a chance to ask before.”

“I’m alright,” he says. “Several new recruits turned up not long after you left, so I’ve mostly been seeing to them.”

“What do you think of them?”

“Well, they know how to use a shield, so that’s an improvement.”

She laughs, the sound warming him, then quiet settles, both of them looking at each other as if they’re on the verge of speaking. He takes a breath, says a silent prayer to Andraste for luck, and takes a leap. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You have?”

“Yes. I … ever since you left.”

There’s a pause. The tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips and it’s like a magnet, drawing Cullen’s eyes to her mouth – to the curve of her lips, full and slightly parted as she says,

“So have I.”

He’s never been so aware of his heartbeat as he is now. “I missed you.”

At some point one or both of them stepped forward, so there’s only scant inches between them now. He leans close, eyes locked on hers.

“I missed you, too,” she whispers. She seems to hesitate a moment. “Have you ever thought about …?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t, but I have.”

Her expression clouds. “Why not?”

He lifts a hand to awkwardly rub the back of his neck. “Because you’re the Inquisitor and I’m the Commander. It’s … _unprofessional_.”

The shadow in her eyes clears, and she smiles. “More unprofessional than what we’ve been doing?”

“Probably not,” he admits with amusement. “But I thought I should make the point. For appearances’ sake.”

“Your concern is noted. Can I be honest and say I don’t really care?”

“Neither do I.”

For a time – he’s not sure how long exactly – everything seems to slow, as they drift closer. His lips hover over hers, and he can feel her breath warm against his skin. His hands have come up to cradle her face, although he’s not consciously aware of moving them, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones . . . and then there’s nothing but the press of his mouth on hers.

The kiss starts soft and hesitant. There’s a sense of uncertainty in the slow way they work their mouths together, like wading into the water to test it. But the weight of the unspoken tension and wanting that has been building between them for weeks is a wave pulling inexorably at them and soon they’re diving, bodies crashing together, mouths opening as they both seek to deepen the kiss.

Cullen’s hands move to her hair, tangling into its softness. Her fingers have moved to his waist and slip beneath the edges of his shirt, running over his bare skin. He lets out a low, quiet groan into her mouth and feels her lips smile against his.

They stumble backwards a few steps, still locked together. Her hands dance nimbly upwards, over his breastplate to the buckles at his shoulders – but after a few moments of unsuccessful tugging and pulling, she makes an impatient noise and pulls slightly away.

“Did you _have_ to wear your armour?”

“I thought it would be odd to turn up to the briefing without it,” Cullen says, fighting back laughter as he moves to undo the straps. “And I didn’t necessarily expect …”

She tilts her head, looking at him curiously. “Really? It’s all I could think about on the way back.”

He starts moving quicker, divesting himself of breastplate, pauldrons and bracers. “I didn’t say I didn’t _think_ about it. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman?”

Smiling, she pulls him back down and starts kissing him again, her hands sliding up the back of his neck so her fingers can run through his curls. He pulls her against him and this time, with only a thin layer of material between them he can feel every line of her body. He lets his hands roam over her, feeling the shape of her, and she lets out small, breathy noises of pleasure that briefly drive all coherent thought from his mind.

As her hands come back down to his shoulders, sliding under the collar of his shirt, he grips her hips firmly and in a swift motion lifts her up off her feet. She squeaks in surprise, then laughs as she wraps her legs around his waist and leans down to trail a line of kisses down the side of his neck to his shoulder as he carries her over to the pallet beside the bed.

He lies her down gently on the blankets, then crawls over her, kissing her eyelids, her jaw, her throat, every part of her that he can reach. She arches into him, hands sliding down his back over the top of his shirt until they find the edges. He draws back a little to let her pull it over his head and throw it one side, then leans back down as she runs fingers over his now bare chest.

“I’ve wanted this since the first night you slept here,” she says, looking at him with eyes filled with open desire.

“I’ve wanted it since before then,” he admits, pushing the edges of her own shirt up and bending down to kiss down her torso. She shifts beneath him, breath hitching as he dips his tongue into her belly button.

Coming back up, he tugs her shirt the rest of the way off and then with hurried fingers they both scramble out of breeches and leggings, fully unwrapping each other so there’s nothing left between them.

For a moment Cullen pauses, feasting on the sight of her. Her skin is slightly flushed and glows in the candlelight, and there’s a scattering of freckles on her upper arms to match the ones that cover her nose and cheeks. Her hair falls to her waist in loose waves of dark brown that gleam like spun silk. Her figure is corded with lean muscle, curving gently at breast, hip and thigh.

She’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice reverential.

Blushing, she laughs. Her gaze has been travelling over his body in return, the muscles of his chest and arms, down to his hips and pelvis, where his cock stands erect, and he feels himself warm beneath it. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

With a smile, she stretches her arms out and he comes to her eagerly, covering her mouth again with his and kissing her with raw feeling, like he’s a man drowning and she is his air.

They fall backwards on to the blankets, arms winding around each other. Cullen’s senses are filled with her - the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, the sound of her breaths, as urgent as his own. Right now there is nothing in world but her and nothing in world that matters but her.

She shifts beneath him and their hips align, his hardness rubbing against her. A groan is shared between their lips, voices mingling together in a single note of desire.

Cullen skims one hand up her sides to take the fullness of one breast in his palm. Maker, he loves the feel of her, soft and warm, responding to every touch. Bringing his head down, he takes her breast in his mouth, gliding his tongue over her taut nipple. She moans, writhing, digging her fingers into his shoulders and arching her back up as though to urge him to take more of her.

Seeing how much she enjoys it, he moves his attentions to her other breast and as he does so he slides his hand down to her thigh and between her legs. He gently eases one finger inside her and begins moving it with long, slow strokes that make her shiver, breath hitching.

Her hands dance up his neck and she pulls his head up so she can lean up and tug on his bottom lip with her teeth.

“Cullen, I – _oh!_ – I want …,” she gasps out as he moves back in, tongue tracing the outline of her lips, delving and exploring.

“Yes?” he breathes into her ear.

“… _more_.”

“As the Inquisitor wishes.”

She gives a laugh, which turns into a cry as he slides another finger inside her, speeding his strokes up. He adds his thumb, stroking in small circles around her clit, and her hips lift almost off the blankets.

Her cries start to build, and he tries to remember which movements she responds to most, where she’s most sensitive, so he knows in future how best to please her. Her hands have settled in his hair and hold tight as he brings her close, working his mouth against hers while his fingers curl and thrust until she finally crests, shuddering in his arms, walls clenching around him. His heart pounds to feel it, to know he’s the one to bring her there.

Slipping his fingers out he leans over her, watching with a smile as she catches her breath and rides out the tail end of her climax. She looks up at him, eyes bright, and plays gently with his curls as she says, “We shouldn’t have waited so long for this.”

“Definitely not,” Cullen agrees.

“So let’s not stop now.”

She leans up to kiss him, pulling him back down so her breasts are pressed firmly against his chest, arms wound around his neck. His hands go to her hips, lifting them up so her legs settle either side of his, giving him a better angle as he positions himself at her entrance.

He pushes himself slowly into her, giving her muscles time to stretch and adjust. She’s hot and tight, but he moves carefully and it’s made easier by the fact that she’s already orgasmed once. When he’s fully seated he pauses, taking a moment just to relish the feel of her.

“Cullen …”

He starts to move, pulling slowly out and then pressing in again, trying to find the same spots that made her cry out before. She moves her hips up to meet him and at first it’s slightly awkward, and out of sync, but after a few tries they soon fall into pace and are moving in tandem. His own pleasure starts to build as the rhythm increases, heat coursing through him, and it’s made greater when she rises up with him, kissing along his shoulders and throat.

Sweat beads in the small of his back, and as their skin glides together he’s not sure if he can tell any more where he leaves off and she begins.

One of his hands finds hers and lifts it up over her head, fingers lacing together to pin it in place, as he begins to thrust harder and faster. He wants to bring her to another climax before he lets go himself, but he can feel himself reaching the edge, low groans getting louder, and he’s not sure if he has the willpower to hold back much longer.

With his other hand he reaches for her breast. He drags his thumb over her nipple and rubs it in circles. He can feel her beginning to peak and he’s sure if he can just hold on another moment … just one more …

Her legs tighten around him and she cries his name into his mouth, body stilling just for a moment, no more than a heartbeat’s length, as she reaches the very top once more, then comes shuddering down. The sound of her release speeds Cullen into his own release, and the intensity as it overtakes him is such that he feels like he’s breaking apart, his body shaking.

Breathless, he collapses on top of her, raining a few last kisses down the side of her face. His energy is utterly spent, but he feels exhilarated. Sliding out of her, he rolls on to his back and pulls her into his arms. Eilidh presses herself close, dropping a kiss on his collarbone then resting her head on his chest and hooking one leg over his.

“Well, that was certainly unprofessional,” she says after a moment.

Cullen chuckles and looks down at her. She’s smiling, a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and radiant. “And worth it.”

“Completely.” Her fingers trace patterns over his stomach. “I could get used to spending our sleepless nights like this.”

“Just our sleepless nights?”

Her laugh is light and silvery. “And more, if you want. I won’t complain.”

His heart is beating very fast and hard as he says, “I want everything.”

Eilidh looks up, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly in surprise.

Rolling on to his side, he leans his forehead against hers. “I’m in love with you. So much.”

There’s a moment of hushed stillness where the only sound he can hear his own heartbeat as he waits with a feeling of quiet dread for her respond. Did he speak too soon? Is it too much? Maker knows, there’s not much in him worth loving any more but he thought, he _hoped_ –

She smiles. A smile wide and brightly happy, and her eyes are _shining_.

“Ar lath ma.” He doesn’t need to speak Elvhen to understand what she means, but she adds anyway, “I love you, too, Cullen.”

He doesn’t think he has ever felt such pure, complete joy before, so fierce and intense that it’s almost painful.

He’s pushed backwards again as she rolls over him, kissing his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, before her lips find his again. Between each slant of their mouths they whisper endearments and “I love you”s, and much more of the night passes before they finally find their way to sleep, exhausted but content, with limbs entwined together.

And tonight, when he sleeps, Cullen’s dreams are nothing but peaceful. And all are filled with her.


End file.
